


he doesn't love her

by eponinethenardiers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, F/M, I'm so sorry for this, Literally all angst, One-Sided Relationship, So so much angst, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponinethenardiers/pseuds/eponinethenardiers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon compliant one-sided Eponine/Montparnasse drabble. In which Montparnasse is in denial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he doesn't love her

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about 7 months ago but only ever kept it on tumblr. If you're staunchly opposed to any form of Montponine, I don't care, just don't read it, I'm not in the mood for a debate, just don't even bother. I am so not trying to promote this as an even remotely healthy relationship in the context of this fic, yes I understand Montparnasse's behaviour is not cute or quirky or romantic.

He doesn’t love her.

He doesn’t love the way she moves like a shadow, gliding from place to place without a whisper of sound. He doesn’t love the way her laugh sounds like gravel, rich and deep and shameless, no pretense of delicacy. He doesn’t love the way she’s steel-covered silk, a rose clad in iron, a veil of innocence still stubbornly draped beneath her scarred, calloused skin.

He pretends his heart doesn’t skip a beat when he sees her dancing in the streets to a beat of her own, that his palms don’t sweat and his mouth doesn’t go dry. He denies the shake in his hand when he threatens her, the knowledge buried deep inside of him that he’d never hurt her, not really, never her. He says he’ll cut her tongue out if she doesn’t stop talking, that he wouldn’t think twice about slitting her throat if it suited him, trying to ignore the ache that throbs through him as she spits threats back with a smile and a laugh, as afraid of him as she is a mouse.

He doesn’t yearn for her touch on his skin, the way she molds against him, the strange softness of her lips despite her sandpaper skin. He doesn’t want to spend hours tracing over every scar she has, working his fingers through her ratty, greasy hair. He never imagines her in the finest silks and linens, wondering how beautiful she’d look scrubbed clean and dressed like the lady she’s always wished she was.

He doesn’t care when she starts obsessing over that bourgeois boy. Just another stupid kid who’s going to fuck her and break her heart, and when the boy’s done, he’ll still be there for her to drown her sorrows with. A part of him doesn’t run cold when he sees the broken look in her eyes deepen with each dying hope. He doesn’t want to rescue her, rescue them both, to somehow run away and leave the filth of the streets behind them.

His heart doesn’t sink in his chest when he hears of the barricades and that bourgeois boy involved.

His blood doesn’t feel like ice slithering through his veins as he searches the city for her, sprinting through each of her usual spots telling himself that no, he doesn’t care, she’s nothing, she’s no one.

His heart doesn’t freeze in his chest when he sees her lying with the bodies, disguised and doused in blood but still her, still his Éponine.

Still dead.

He doesn’t keep her old torn dress that he finds, discarded in favour of oversized boy’s clothes. He doesn’t press his face into it to try and fight off the loneliness wrapping its tendrils around him and squeezing, squeezing until he thinks his head will burst from the fact that she’s gone, that the closest thing he had to a friend vanished in the middle of the night to her deathbed for a boy she hardly knew and didn’t care enough to say goodbye.

Squeezing until he can no longer forget that she never cared about it him like he cares about her. 

He doesn’t love her.

He doesn’t love anyone.

Not anymore.


End file.
